On the Inside
by KeyLime422
Summary: Michael "Ponyboy" Curtis is a soc, living a life of luxury on the West Side. He's got everything, and can't fathom having a different life than the one he has now. Once ignorant and privileged, and he's about to wise up to some of the realities of Tulsa.
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN _THE OUTSIDERS_ (THAT WOULD BE S.E. HINTON) **

**A/N: This is pretty OOC: Ponyboy, Soda, Darry, etc are all Socs. Tulsa is flipped and some of the events are similar to _The Outsiders_ but with some obvious literary license being taken and some changes being made. Oh, and I haven't really decided where this story is going. I was trying to think of ideas for my other story (_Somewhere in Between)_ and this sort of just popped into my head. We'll see how it goes...so just bear with me? I've got a rough outline, but it's subject to change**

**Oh, and Darry is only 19, and is in his senior year (this starts in March). Soda's 16, not 16-going-on-17. Ponyboy's 14. **

My name is Michael Curtis. Well, to tell you the truth it really isn't. But when you have a name like Ponyboy, how can people _not_ expect you to go by your middle one? My brother Patrick doesn't use his first one either. We haven't decided which is worse, 'Ponyboy' or 'Sodapop'. Being named after a drink doesn't always make you feel so cool. But, on the other hand, at least it's an actual term, unlike _Ponyboy_. You'd think our parents, being the prime example socialites that they are, would've thought this through a bit more before signing away on our birth certificates.

But my oldest brother, Darryl, says it's because, before they decided to figure their lives out, settle down, and be parents, our parents were different. 'Original' would be a pretty fitting word. Patrick and I always remind him then that he got the normal name, before Mom and Dad decided to get creative. We never say anything to them, of course. I mean, they obviously had to realize that we didn't particuarly love our names when we stopped going by them. They went along with it, though, it's what they call us at home. Maybe they realized that our first names didnt garner the best kind of attention.

Enough about our names. It doesn't bother me anymore. Nobody really notices the little issue anymore. I need to stop before I start rambling on and never get to the point. They're just names, right? It takes more than a name to make a person. That's what Dad says. I'm probably making a mountain out of a molehill, like Mom says I tend to do. I got her imagination. Dad says that Mom was a big dreamer when they were younger, before they decided to get serious and think about their future.

I think it's a good thing that my mom was a dreamer. But I've always been glad that they decided to "get serious". If they hadn't, well, we'd probably be living on the East Side, holes in our clothes, walking around like fools with greased-up hair. We started out that way, when I was really little. I hardly even remember it though, walking the line between middler and greaser. We've got a nice house, here in Tulsa, complete with a pristine lawn, flower gardens that my mom loves, a swimming pool, the works. There's even a little fountain and birdbath. What can I say? Parents are parents.

Patrick likes the pool especially. He's got to be one of the most happy-go-lucky socs around. Put him in a room with anybody, soc, middler, or greaser, and he'd make them laugh. He's just got that kind of personality. He's got the looks to go along with it too. I mean it, he's the type of handsome you'd associate with somebody famous, like the Beatles, people like that. All the girls hang around him too. He takes them for spins in his mustang all the time with his best friend, Steve.

Steve Randle. He and Patrick have been friends for ages, ever since he moved in next-door when he was in elementary school. He's not as good-looking as Patrick, or has the same charisma, but, according to all the girls who hang around him, he's got a "gorgeous" head of hair. Even though he only uses it to grow hair on and think of insults for me, it's his semi-Beatle approach to finding a girl. And it's worked, he's got a little brunette named Evie. I like her enough, more than Steve anyways. Sandy, Patrick's girl, is nicer though. She's got the prettiest blue eyes and this cute giggle. I think she's one of the few things that Patrick is serious about. That's what Darrel says to tease him sometimes.

Darrel's too serious sometimes though. He's a grade-A soc though. Perfect grades, perfect future, good looks, doesn't get drunk, doesn't mess around with girls, doesn't act too wild. He's determined to get to college, not that he should have any worries about it. His path's as clean-cut as his hair. Sure, he goes to beer blasts sometimes, goofs around with his friends, but he's not naiive. He's strong and there's something about Darrel that makes people respect him.

Even Dallas listens to him, and he's hands-down the craziest of us all. His house down the street from ours always has something going on. Throws parties, gets the girls, and sometimes gets caught. His old man always bails him out though, and never even punishes him. He's something of a whole different breed sometimes. Sometimes I think his personality's better set for him to be a hood. Not that I'd ever be stupid enough to say that. Keith, on the other hand, well, his sunglasses couldn't hide half of the black eye he got after he made that quip.

Keith's a real wise-cracker, always yammering, always teasing, always trying to get his two bit's worth into anything. Two-Bit, huh, that's a good nickname for him. He's a little crazy, and has his own view of things. Apparently it's not the right view, in the scholastic sense, since he's still got a year and a half of school to get through, and he's been 18 for a couple months now. His mom tries to scold him, but he always cracks jokes until she stops. His dad can get him into whatever school he wants to go to, whenever he gets that diploma. It's not that Keith's dumb though, he's just clever enough that he's found a way to postpone getting a job.

Who am I forgetting. Of course, Johnny. He's easy to forget sometimes. He doesn't say much, and he's a a pretty nervous guy. I don't know why. His house is across the street from ours. It's big, like everyone else's on the street, a little plain, a little dark, but that's how Johnny is. His skin's always a couple shades lighter than ours, no matter the season, and he never does much to attract attention. He's not one to get editorials in the paper, but at least he's not one to have mug shots in there either. He's got a scar on the side of his face though. I don't think he likes it that much. That's probably why he wears his hair a little longer than usual. It's from when a couple of hoods jumped him. I always thought that he'd try to get it fixed, like from a doctor or something. But that never happened.

It's strange having a group like us. Socs don't usually stick together so solidly. Yeah, we party together and we're all friendly and polite to each other at school, but the groups are always shifting, no big attachments. And even though any one of the seven of us would probably rather go to one of the parties that hick with the missing front teeth throws on the East side than admit it, we are close. I'm not the mushy, fluffy, pansy type, but it's the truth. We have each others' backs when we need to. I don't really know what that means about us. If it's a good thing or a bad thing. But sometimes, I'm glad for it.

* * *

**I'd love to have 5 reviews before I update, to know whether or not I should bother. It doesn't have to be long, just a line or two of your thoughts or constructive criticism. Any thoughts about what will happen? I'm sorely tempted to call Patrick Soda and Keith Two-Bit. I've had to correct myself quite a few times already. Sorry it's so short, but I'd like some feedback before continuing. Thanks!**


	2. Chapter 2

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN _THE OUTSIDERS_ (THAT WOULD BE S.E. HINTON) **

**AN: Wow! I got my 5 reviews in less than 24 hours! You guys have no idea how happy I was to see them pop up. Thanks so much. Guess that means I have to update again, huh? Well, here goes nothing (seriously, "winging it" is an apt description to what's going on right now) and I hope I don't disappoint! **

I've never had to deal with death. My dad's parents died before I was born. Then my other set of grandparents died when I was just a little kid. The only thing I can really remember about them is the smell of baby powder and the vauge feel of my grandmother's hand-knit christmas sweaters. I think we might still have a box of them up in the attic.

So I've never had to actually hear the news that somebody you care about is gone. It sort of felt like last winter when I got that ear ache and mom stuffed cotton in my ears. It didn't really help with the pain. It was the same way now. Like there was something wrong with my head. And it hurt. The man was still talking at the front door. I could see his face from behind Darrel, looking sympathetic. Patrick looked at me, something that looked like panic flooded into his dark brown eyes. Was my expression that stricken?

I could make out most of the key words from the man's subdued tones.

_Brake failure...train...severe trauma...too late..._

After a few more minutes, the officer handed something to Darrel and left. He turned to us, a look I could only describe as horrified fixed on his face.

* * *

I don't like funerals. It would be pretty disturbing if I ever met somebody who enjoyed attending them. You'd think I'd be used to getting dressed up, the shoes, the ties, all the stupid buttons. But it's still a pain. I methodically adjusted my shirt collar and ran the comb through my hair.

I only let myself focus on one thing at a time, it was the only way to keep myself together. I couldn't start crying again. I'd spent the last seven evenings crying in my room. I'd rathe die than admit that to anybody, but I knew that Patrick had been doing the same thing. He'd taken to sitting outside whenever he got home from school, only coming inside to eat. His eyes were red but we did our best to ignore it.

There was no way I was going to break down and start bawling again. I had to stand in front of everbody, listening to my parents' eulogies, listening to whatever Darrel was going to say when it was his turn to speak. The guys were going to be there, and I didn't want to give them any reason to mess with me, so I couldn't start crying. I doubted they would do anything, given the brevity of the situation. That was as far as I let my thoughts get. If I didn't dwell on it, if I approached it how I appraoched everything, cool and collected, I'd get through it. What else could I do?

With a sigh, I resigned myself to the fact that the funny cowlick I had in the back of my head wasn't going to lay still. The wetted comb didn't do any good either. I heard Patrick and Darrel walking then the front door shut. Apparently I was supposed to be ready by now. I probably should've looked at the clock. My mind's been wondering lately, too. I was thinking about and doing anything and everything trivial to keep my brain busy. It made me a lot more forgetful than usual. I pulled at my stupid tie again, knowing it looked sloppy, and ran downstairs to catch up to them. With the way we were all acting this week, they were liable to forget about me.

* * *

During the service, it felt like all the times Mom yelled at me for stupid things I'd done. It was like I was listening, and I knew what everybody was saying, but my brain wouldn't absorb it, wouldn't actual make it make sense. There'd been a service in the church before we filed out to to the cemetary. It had been nice, I guess. Patrick hated going to church, but he always did to make our parents happy. I noticed the miniter turn to Darrel and nod.

Watching my oldest brother standing next to the elderly man, I began to realize something. Yes, this man had wrinkles in his face, and his forehead didn't end until halfway up his head, but looking at Darrel, I saw the word "old" in a different sense. Darrel stood there, still the nineteen year old football star that I'd always known, but something in his face looked so different. As though he'd aged well past his years. I felt something break through the fog in my head. I tugged at my tie again.

Beside me, Patrick was staring fixedly at the ground, even though the tears were visible and his shoulders were shaking with sobs. Seeing my slap-happy brother looking so broken, my own eyes started stinging and I felt the telltale tears trailing down my face. _Everybody's here. They're already looking at you with "the look". Don't start acting like a baby. _I tried to make myself stop, but it wasn't working.

I glanced around me; a lot of the people here were only vaguely imprinted in my mind, ladies from my mom's book club, men that my dad played golf with, other country club members. A man who I couldn't place at all hovered around the edge of the crowd. I turned to the more familiar faces. I hadn't talked to any of the guys all week. Steve was next to Patrick, I saw him put his hand on Patrick's shoulder once, sympathetic. Keith for once, wasn't cracking jokes, just standing there, his head bowed, hands quietly playing with the coins in his pocket.

I had been half surprised when I saw Dallas pull up in his mustang earlier. But he'd come to pay his respects, and I had to respect him for that. He'd never really cared for any sort of authority figure, but he'd liked my parents. I remembered how my mom used to smile at his antics before scolding him. On my right was Johnny, dressed in black like the rest of us. He'd muttered his sympathies to us earlier in his quiet way. I think he knew that no words, no matter how heartfelt, would actually help.

Darrel cleared his throat, paused, and started speaking.

"Thank you all for coming today. It would've made my parents happy to know that they were surrounded in death, just this one time, by the people who were always there for them in life..."

Darrel held up better than Patrick and I. His face was dry, the moisture in his eyes did not spill over, and his deep voice did not break, despite the many pauses in his speech. Even my oldest brother needed time to keep from breaking down.

* * *

After the funeral, everybody gathered at our house. Our next-door neighbor had volunteered to help us prepare some food. A lot of people brought casseroles and desserts too. I wasn't very hungry, and I tried to sneak away, dogding looks of sympathy and "I'm sorry"'s. I wasn't trying to be ungrateful, but I was starting to feel claustrophobic.

Surprisingly, Steve, Patrick, Keith, Dallas, and Johnny all had the same idea. Darrel had to stay inside, hosting. I felt guilty for leaving him, but he could deal with this much better than Patrick and I. Nobody was using the patio or covered pool in the middle of March. I joined them, nodding acknowlegdement before sitting down on the bench.

"It's not going to be the same around here without your folks," Dallas started, breaking the silence. It was his way of saying he was upset they were gone.

"I'm gonna miss them" Johnny added in a low voice. Like the rest of us, Johnny respected Dallas (quite frankly, most people did. He could be as rough and tough as a hood if he got in a dangerous mood). But Johnny really looked up to him, like a hero or something. I though about that sometimes, not completely able to figure it out.

Keith and Steve muttered their own versions of "I'm sorry" without ever actually saying the specific words. I was glad for it. The words seemed hollow after hearing them so many times. Steve was trying to comfort Patrick, looking sad and slightly uncomfortable. Patrick's eyes were red. We're guys, it's not easy for us to show emotion, especially grief. I saw Patrick pull out a new pack of cigs from his suit jacket. He doesn't smoke, unless something is really bothering him. We don't smoke that much anyways, it was too much of a JD trait, I guess. But today was one of those days

Johnny, my best buddy out of all of them, gave me a sympathetic look, lighting up beside me and offering me a Kool. Sadly, it was exactly what I needed right now. I breathed out my worries in a cloud of smoke, reveling in the burn in my lungs, allowing myself only to think about this moment. the acrid smell of smoke. The glowing end of Johnny's cigarette. My mind wasn't ready to dwell on anything that wasn't superficial or irrelevant. Maybe tomorrow.

* * *

***Ducks out from behind computer screen* So? How was it? Horrific? Meh? I didn't get this chapter done as quickly as the first one (And future updates will probably be sporadic) but I'm trying to make them an appropriate length. Reviews would be great! They really help to encourage me (even when they're just constructive criticism), so would 5 more be too much to ask for? Thanks!**

**PS: I'm thinking of changing this story's title. What do you think? I didn't really like "On the Inside" when I picked it, I just needed to put something in the title spot. I'm juggling "(Things are) Rough All Over", "Draw Me a Picture,"and "You Dig Ok". But none of them sound completely right. Any ideas?**


	3. Chapter 3

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN _THE OUTSIDERS_ (THAT WOULD BE S.E. HINTON) **

_Johnny, my best buddy out of all of them, gave me a sympathetic look, lighting up beside me and offering me a Kool. Sadly, it was exactly what I needed right now. I breathed out my worries in a cloud of smoke, reveling in the burn in my lungs, allowing myself only to think about this moment. the acrid smell of smoke. The glowing end of Johnny's cigarette. My mind wasn't ready to dwell on anything that wasn't superficial or irrelevant. Maybe tomorrow._

**AN: I realize (a little too late) that in the last chapter, I said that Ponyboy was 14. Well, he's only 13 (since in the book, he'd only turned 14 about a month into the events of the story). I even meant to type 13. Guess my keys slipped. Yes, that's right, I blame my computer. **

* * *

I didn't know what to do now. It was like there was a screen in front of my mind. I know what was going on around me, but I felt disconnected from everything. While it managed to distract my brain from overanalysing, which my teachers say I often do, it wasn't entirely pleasant. I paced around my room, bouncing the hackiesack Dad got me last year. I didn't really understand the point of the little ball, but it was cool to watch it spinning in the air, since it had so many colors in it. I'm not the football star in the family. I leave the athletics to Darrel and just stick to bringing home the grades.

A knock at the door snapped me out of my hackie sack reverie.

An woman's crisp voice was talking to Darrel. Is this the house of Darrel Shaynne, Sodapop Patrick, and Ponyboy Michael Curtis? That sort of got my attention too. Nobody calls us by those names. Darrel, sure, but Pat and I tended to introduce ourselves by our middle ones and just corrected teachers about five minutes into the first day of classes.

"Michael? Can you come down here please?" I heard Darrel walking across the floors, pausing when he got to the base of the stairs, and call my name. With a sigh, I tossed my little form of entertainment aside. I listened as the backdoor opened for a moment and Darrel repeating the message to Patrick. He still wasn't spending that much time inside with us. Or maybe I just needed to leave my room for more than just the necessities.

I had an acute sense of deja vu floating in the back of my head as I listened to the woman talk. She delivered her message in the same clear voice she'd introduced herself in, her voice carefully devoid of emotion, firmly stating the facts. I appreciated her honesty, and the fact that she hadn't started off with the "I'm sorry" linem even if her words had a cool formality to them.

"I understand that all of you have suffered an immense tragedy very recently. It must be an incredibly difficult time for you, but unfortunately, there are some legalities that must be addressed now," she began. Paper rustled as she withdrew them from her briefcase. I felt the fog lift a little bit from my ears, not my entire head, but a little bit more than I had felt in the past 2 weeks. I made myself pay attention to what she was saying, although some of it had been twisted around enough to give it that sort of blank memorized feel. I'll never understand why some people feel the need to take a single statement and bend it around ten times to prove the same point that could've been made in much simpler terms.

"Your parents, may they rest in peace, were obviously your legal guardians up to this point. Darrel, this doesn't strictly apply to you, as you are already 19, but," She turned to Patrick and I, sitting stony-faced on the couch, "you two are still minors, until your 18th birthdays, and now are the responsibility of the state."

I wasn't liking the sound of this too much, but I just kept my face nice and straight like hers was. It's my poker face. Patrick looked more like he was in pain. He's hardly smiled since that night.

"We will be placing you in the nearest center in the foster care system," both my head and Patrick's shot up at that. I saw Darrel's jaw set, the way it did when he was doing badly at football. A boy's home? They were going to put us in a boy's home? Those places were for little babies that had nobody in the world to legally care for them for the next 18 years of their lives and the greaser scum whose parents couldn't be bothered, too busy with booze or gambling. They cut their hair off and locked them up. I think I was getting foster care and reformeries mixed up in my head at that point. Dallas had been sent to one of those for a little bit. His dad bailed him out after a week.

The lady, whose name I couldn't recall with all the thoughts swirling in my head, snapped her bag shut again, and looked as though she wanted us to already be packing our bags. I didn't know about Patrick, but I couldn't move.

"Excuse Ms. Martin, but what about my parents' will? I've seen it. It specified that they didn't want us separated if it was avoidable in any way. There must be some way for this not to happen. I'm a legal adult..."

Ms. Martin removed her glasses and leveled Darrel with a stare, searching his face. If there was something she was looking for in it, I doubted she'd find it. Darrel's face looked like it was carved out of stone, giving away nothing. Dad called it his game face. I didn't even have to look at Patrick to know this had his full attention.

"You would like to assume legal responsibility for your brothers, is that correct?" Her tone was not overly critical, but I could hear the skepticism. I wasn't about to voice my opinion, but I had a pretty good idea what she was thinking. Darrel was barely a "legal adult". One year didn't automatically grant him all the wisdom that a parent had. Still, I was slightly panicking inside. We couldn't be split up. Why was everything crumbling now?

"Perhaps we could talk about this in private?" She continued. I was irked. Did she think that Patrick and I shouldn't hear this? It was our future they were discussing. But I reminded myself that it meant she was considering this option.

"Come on, Michael, didn't you say there was something at the library you wanted to check out?" Patrick tugged on my sleeve. I nodded.

"Be back within an hour, ok?" Darrel warned us before we walked out the door.

* * *

As soon as we hit the sidewalk, I had to say something.

"They can't do this to us..." I muttered, kicking at a stone. "Why didn't we take the car? It's too hot. Why are we out walking like a couple of hitch hikers?" My list of complaints stretched far and wide, apparently. Did I mention that sometimes I think too much about inconsequential things?

"Ponyboy!" Patrick managed to startle me out of my tirade. My eyebrows rose of their own accord.

"Yes, _Sodapop_?" I glared at him. I'm not sure if we could tell though, since I was already squinting against the sun.

"You need to calm down." he tried to give me a reassuring smile. I kept the rest of my grumbling inside my head. I didn't need to hear him yelling "Ponyboy" all over the neighborhood. Yeah, a couple people already knew it, but I didn't need him reminding everyone.

"Listen, Michael. Darrel's not stupid like me," he started. I opened my mouth to stop him. Patrick's never liked school. And I mean never. In kindergarten, he'd manged to climb up on the bathroom windowsill and escape during nap time. Mom hadn't gotten upset, just walked him back and promised to stay until he felt comfortable. If he hadn't have met Steve there, Mom would probably have been stuck there for a while.

"You know that's not true, Pepsi-Cola." I nudged him. Dad had decided on Patrick's name eight months before he was born. "Pepsi-Cola" was the nickname he used to call him. Even though he didn't go with "Sodapop", he always grinned when Dad called him that.

I opened the door to the library, nodding. Patrick usually knew what to do or tell me to keep me from freaking out. I know he didn't like this any better than I did. We just had to figure this out.

* * *

**A/N: I asked for 5 reviews last time, and well, I didn't get them, which made me a bit sad, but alas, I've moved on. That, however, does not mean I wouldn't LOVE to get some more this time around *Hint hint*. Just let me know what you think. Even if you think it's terrible. Please just let me know. Honestly, I'd like to read some concrit instead of "Good! Update!" But I'm not going to be too picky. Sorry if I sound snappy. But, I will be trying to update semi-regularly, good news, right? Bye for now.**


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